Chapter 5 - The Safe Behind the Painting
Dominic moved in front of me.
“Show yourself.”
A lamp clicked on.
Uncle Richard sat in my father's old armchair.
He looked twenty years older than he had that morning.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I said.
“I needed to know you came alone.”
I looked at Dominic.
Richard gave a bitter laugh.
“Apparently that was too much to hope for.”
“What is the envelope?”
Richard stared at it.
“I don't know.”
“You brought me here.”
“Yes.”
“You put it there?”
“No.”
That stopped me.
“Then who did?”
“I arrived ten minutes before you. It was already here.”
Dominic checked the windows.
No broken glass.
No obvious forced entry.
“Who has keys?” he asked.
Richard looked at me.
“David had one.”
Of course he did.
I picked up the envelope.
Inside was a single photograph.
My father standing beside a painting in his study.
I knew the painting.
A landscape Mom bought at an estate sale.
On the back of the photograph:
Claire knows where Margaret hid things.
I looked toward the staircase.
Mom.
When I was a child, she hid Christmas presents behind paintings because Dad never thought to look there.
I ran upstairs.
Dad's study remained almost exactly as I'd remembered.
The painting still hung behind the desk.
I lifted it.
A wall safe.
Richard whispered, “I never knew.”
I did.
Not consciously.
But somewhere inside me, I remembered Mom laughing as she covered it years ago.
“Arthur, nobody looks behind ugly art.”
Dad had kept the painting after she died.
The safe had a keypad.
“What code?” Dominic asked.
I thought.
Mom's birthday?
No.
Their anniversary?
No.
Then I remembered Dad's computer password.
My first Cubs game.
I entered 08122001.
Click.
The safe opened.
Inside were three things.
A folder.
A digital recorder.
And a sealed letter.
FOR CLAIRE ONLY.
I sat at Dad's desk.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Sweetheart,
If you are reading this, then the safeguards I put in place were necessary.
I stopped.
Richard turned away.
I continued.
I made mistakes. The greatest was waiting too long to tell you what I suspected about David. I feared that if I accused him without proof, you would choose your husband and I would lose access to you completely.
He had been right.
I hated that.
David had spent years telling me Dad was controlling.
Maybe sometimes he had been.
But he had also seen something I refused to see.
The letter continued.
Richard made serious errors in judgment, but I do not believe your uncle intended physical harm to me. He introduced David to Wexler without understanding the full scope of Wexler's operation. Richard must answer for what he did, but do not confuse cowardice with murder.
Richard sat down heavily.
Tears ran down his face.
“Keep reading.”
I did.
David discovered that I intended to provide evidence to federal authorities. I confronted him privately. He asked me to protect our family. I told him protecting Claire meant protecting her from him.
My throat closed.
The next paragraph was underlined.
If my death appears accidental, assume nothing.
I covered my mouth.
Dominic looked away, giving me privacy even though we were standing feet apart.
The last line read:
Thomas Bell has the third copy.
I folded the letter.
“Thomas is alive,” I said.
Richard nodded.
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“He disappeared after the apartment fire.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I was ashamed.”
“That excuse is getting old.”
“I know.”
Dominic picked up the recorder.
“May I?”
I nodded.
He pressed play.
My father's voice filled the room.
“December fifteenth, 9:42 p.m. David visited my home.”
Then David.
Recorded secretly.
“You're destroying Claire's life.”
Dad replied, “No. I'm trying to keep you from doing it.”
“You have no idea what happens if these records become public.”
“I know exactly what happens.”
“Richard goes to prison.”
“If he's guilty, he'll answer for it.”
“You'll humiliate your daughter.”
“My daughter will survive embarrassment.”
A pause.
Then Dad said:
“What she may not survive is you.”
I began crying.
Not loudly.
Just tears.
David's voice became colder.
“You think you know me.”
“I know enough.”
“Then you know people around me have more to lose than I do.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
Pause.
“It's advice.”
The recording ended.
Richard whispered, “Arthur played that for me.”
“When?”
“The morning he died.”
“You said you saw him the day before.”
“I lied.”
Again.
“Why?”
“Because I was the last family member to see him alive.”
My entire body stiffened.
“What happened?”
“He asked me to go with him to federal investigators.”
“And?”
“I refused.”
“Why?”
“I was afraid.”
“Of prison?”
“Yes.”
“Of David?”
“Yes.”
“Of Wexler?”
Richard looked at me.
“Most of all.”
He stood and walked to the window.
“Arthur left angry. He said he would do it without me.”
“What time?”
“Around ten.”
Dad's crash happened at 11:37.
“You let him drive away knowing he might be in danger?”
“I followed him.”
“What?”
“I changed my mind.”
“Where did he go?”
“He didn't go downtown.”
“Where?”
“A parking garage in Skokie.”
My skin prickled.
“The mechanic.”
Richard nodded.
“He met someone.”
“Who?”
“I couldn't see.”
“Then what?”
“Arthur left. I lost him.”
“And you never told police?”
“I was terrified they'd ask why I was following him.”
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I looked at the folder from the safe.
Inside were copies of bank transfers.
Wexler Consulting.
David's company.
A mechanic named Peter Lawson.
And another account.
R.B. Holdings.
Richard Bell?
No.
Richard's surname was Pendleton.
“What's R.B.?”
Richard shook his head.
Dominic photographed it.
His phone buzzed.
He answered.
“Yeah?”
His expression changed.
“Where?”
Pause.
“We're coming.”
He hung up.
“What?”
“One of my people found Thomas Bell.”
“Where?”
“Milwaukee.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
Relief rushed through me.
“He's willing to talk?”
Dominic hesitated.
“He contacted us.”
“Why now?”
“Because somebody contacted him first.”
“Who?”
“David.”
We left before midnight.
Richard wanted to come.
I said no.
For once, he didn't argue.
Dominic and I drove north.
Two hours later, we reached a small hotel outside Milwaukee.
Room 217.
Dominic knocked.
Nothing.
Again.
“Thomas?”
Silence.
The door opened an inch.
A man in his forties stared out.
“You Claire?”
“Yes.”
He opened the door.
Thomas Bell looked nothing like I remembered.
Beard.
Gray hair.
A scar near his ear.
But his eyes were the same.
He looked at me for a long moment.
“You look like Arthur.”
My throat tightened.
“You have the third copy?”
“Yes.”
“Then give it to me.”
He shook his head.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because you still don't know what happened.”
“Then tell me.”
Thomas looked at Dominic.
“You shouldn't have brought a Rossi.”
Dominic's jaw tightened.
“Why?”
Thomas locked the door.
“Because Arthur wasn't only investigating David and Wexler.”
He reached beneath the bed and pulled out a metal case.
“He was investigating the Rossi accounts too.”
Dominic went still.
Thomas opened the case.
Inside were files.
Dozens.
He removed one.
Across the front was written:
ROSSI / WEXLER / PENDLETON.
May you like
Then Thomas looked at Dominic.
“Your uncle was in the garage the night Arthur died.”
